


Intermediate Repiloting

by ScreamingAtTheSky



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreamingAtTheSky/pseuds/ScreamingAtTheSky
Summary: OK, so I am not the biggest fan of season 5 (for obvious reasons), but there is something about the mention of Britta working as a bartender and doing "Tummy Tuesdays" that I just can't get out of my head. So, this one takes place right after the first episode of season 5 and, basically, Jeff feels the same way I do about it. It's probably a little out of character, and it's definitely self-indulgent, but hopefully it's also a somewhat good time. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	Intermediate Repiloting

He is _not_ here to see her. 

It had been a crazy couple of days. He’d been dealing with the failure of his _second_ shot at a law career. He’d gone back to Greendale for the first time in forever because of that Humphries guy building a faulty bridge and trying to blame the school for it. The dean had hugged him far too long upon his return. Anyone would be harried by these events, why should Jeff Winger be any different? He needs a stiff drink, maybe even two or three. His usual, Macallan neat. But that’s definitely all he needs. Just because, out of all the breweries and pubs in Colorado, he happens to be at the bar she works in (what kind of name is Skeepers, anyway?) doesn’t mean he misses her. Nor does the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about her since seeing her last week – the smooth material of her leather jacket, the slight darkening of her hair, the fullness of her lower lip. And the fact that it happens to be Tuesday night is coincidence as well. So what if it’s something called “Tummy Tuesday,” whatever that is? _Irrelevant_ is what it is. It’s the alcohol he needs, not the company. 

He is _not_ here to see her.

And yet, when he enters the bar and scans the room and his eyes land on her, blonde waves cascading across her shoulders, eyes narrowed in defiance, he can’t deny that he feels the usual flutter in his chest, the inevitable gravitational pull of his body toward hers. Because Britta Perry will always be beautiful – there’s no way around it. Whether it’s been five minutes or five months since he’s seen her last, his breath will always catch at the sight of her, just like it did during that first Spanish class five years ago, when the unexpected close-lipped smirk she’d given him had made the one upside of attending a community college in your mid-thirties _all too clear_. Now he knows her better. He knows she’ll eventually open her mouth and say something misguided or incorrect or outlandish and he’ll be able to think straight again. But for that nanosecond that he gets to take her in, just like he used to while sitting next to her at the study room table, all is right with the world.

She stands before him now behind the bar, looking every bit the confident mixologist and completely oblivious to his presence. She’s wearing a white tank top with a black bra underneath, dark blue skinny jeans, and boots that add a solid four inches to her petite frame. Her eyeliner is smudged a little under her eyes and she’s smiling more than usual, but he assumes that’s par for the course for any busy bartender who’s living off tips. The other day Troy had said she’s even bad at bartending, but Jeff would have to disagree. She’s making drinks left and right, seemingly not even paying attention to what she’s putting in them, as if she’s been doing this for so long, she doesn’t have to think about the task at hand, muscle memory kicking in. It reminds Jeff of all the times he’d driven to Greendale from his apartment without once thinking about where he was going and not realizing until he’d arrived that he had no idea how he’d gotten there. He realizes then that he’ll be making the ride more and more often now as a teacher there, and he can feel the bile rise in the back of his throat at the thought. When he was younger and he’d pictured what his life would become, a teacher at a community college was never it.

Luckily, he doesn’t have long to focus on where his life has taken him as, at that moment, a particularly large man slams a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar and drunkenly shouts, “I want a tequila Tuesday from her tummy!” He points at Britta, the look in his eyes ravenous, and for the first time Jeff sees her bravado falter. No one else at the bar would notice, but he knows Britta like the back of his hand, and he can see the slight narrowing of the eyes, the downward slope of the mouth, the momentary scrunching of the nose. It happens so quickly, he has to question if he saw it at all, because in the next second, she’s laughing with the man and tucking the $20 for the shot into her bra as she calls, “Natalie! We got a shooter!”

A dark-haired woman appears from behind the bar, bottle of tequila in hand. Britta places salt and a lime wedge on a plate and, much to his shock, climbs onto the bar. She lies down on her back, sweeping her hair out around her, and then pulls her shirt up ever so slowly, until her entire stomach is revealed. She tucks the shirt into the underwire of her bra and waits.

Alright. Fine. He’s man enough to admit it. He came here to see _her_. In fact, this is _exactly_ what he came here for. The allure of watching Britta – cynical, argumentative, opinionated feminist Britta – participate in something called Tummy Tuesdays was too promising a prospect to pass up. When he’d heard her and Annie mention it last week amid a fairly heated argument between the two, he’d tucked it away in the back of his mind, like you do with a memory you don’t want to lose, or a fact you know will come in handy later.

Like when the woman you were basically joined at the hip with for four years comes crashing back into your life again unexpectedly and you have the chance to see her in a less than ideal position…for her, anyway. 

But now, seeing it happen right in front of his eyes, this is more than he’d ever thought possible. Britta lying on this bar is practically irresistible. He can see why there are so many customers here on a random Tuesday night. She’s like every fantasy he’s ever had come to life – but he has the benefit that none of these people do. He actually _knows_ her. He knows her favorite band, he knows where she grew up, he knows she taps her fingers on the table when she’s nervous and rolls her eyes before she’s about to make a point and doesn’t like sci-fi movies and likes to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the window because she enjoys waking up in the morning to the sun on her face. All these people can appreciate the outer shell of this woman lying supine on the bar before them, but he appreciates every part of Britta, from the tips of her fingers to the deepest corners of her soul. 

And that might be why watching this behemoth of a man approach her like he’s stalking prey is making Jeff sick right now. He watches in disgust as Natalie sprinkles salt on the skin just above Britta’s belly button and places the lime wedge in between Britta’s parted lips. Finally, she pours a shot of tequila right into Britta’s belly button, and he can see her body constrict, but he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or the knowledge of what’s to come. With a lascivious grin, the man leans down and laps up the shot from Britta’s body with his tongue, lingering way too long on the soft skin there. Then, his mouth moves up to the salt resting on her rib cage and he sucks that up, too, licking his lips to get every last crystal. Last, he looks up at Britta, almost as if he’s asking for permission, and Jeff thinks for the first time since seeing him that maybe this guy isn’t so bad. Britta gives him a slight nod and as much of a smile as she can with a lime wedge in her mouth and he takes it from between her teeth with his own hungrily. When he’s done, he turns to the crowd and pumps his fist, as if he’s just won some kind of competition, and everyone cheers and laughs. Natalie hands Britta a wet rag so she can clean herself off as she hops down off the bar and she does, looking ultimately fine with the entire ordeal. She’s probably had better customers than that guy, but he’s sure she’s also had worse, and his heart breaks a little at the thought.

Jeff continues watching as the man leans over the bar and he can just make it out when he says, “Thanks, Britta. You’re a sweetheart,” and Jeff almost laughs, as that’s not often a word he’d use to describe his favorite living warpath. But the smile she gives the man in response couldn’t be described as anything but sweet, and Jeff can see there’s a history between the two.

“Anytime Larry. Just remember what we talked about – a little less tongue next time, ok?”

She slaps his back a little too hard and the man blushes and then turns away, getting lost in the crowd. Britta leans back against the bar, taking in a moment of quiet as the crowd all seems settled with their drinks and food for the time being and Jeff decides to take this opportunity to talk to her. He sidles up to the bar and leans one elbow onto it, his body halfway across it so he can get as close as possible to her ear.

“Well that was quite the show, Britta. What _would_ Susan B. Anthony say?”

She turns to face him, and if she’s surprised to see him, she covers it masterfully.

“She would tell you to shut the fuck up.” She smirks at him.

“Wow. So the guy who licks tequila off of you gets smiles and back rubs and I get _that_?”

“Larry is a regular. And a veteran.”

“You hate war.”

“True. But he’s a good man. And his wife died a few months ago.”

“And you’re just making him feel better?”

She shrugs, probably resigned to the fact that he needs the company and she needs the money. “Told you guys I was a modern-day therapist. What are you doing here, Jeff?”

“Well, I’d be drinking if the service wasn’t so terrible.”

He hopes she won’t press him as to why he’s _actually_ here, mainly because he doesn’t know what to say. _I came here because I’m a horny man and I wanted to see you pick your shirt up? I wanted to see you acting wild because it turns me on? I’ve missed you?_ None of these sounded like Winger-worthy responses, despite how true they all might be.

“Pipe it,” she says, sparing him the embarrassment of an honest answer and sighs, pulling the Macallan and a lowball off the shelf. She pours him his drink and passes it to him across the bar, leaning down on her elbows as she does so. He notices the way the light dances off her skin – she’s still so pale, she’s almost translucent – and he can see down her shirt a little and there is not one part of him that’s complaining.

“Crazy couple days at Greendale, huh?” she asks.

Jeff studies his scotch before taking a swig. “Yeah,” he says, finishing the drink and pushing the empty glass toward her. “Hit me again.”

Britta widens her eyes at him. “ _Really_ crazy, I guess.” 

She gives him another scotch and he swallows it down in two gulps. Once again, he pushes the empty glass toward her and taps the bar.

“Are you sure?” She shoots him a side-eyed glance. He’s sure she’s torn between wanting to make money and not wanting him to overindulge. But all he can think about right now is how he wants to reach over the bar and cup her chin and tell her she’s incredibly frustrating in the best way and kiss her until her lips swell and her chest heaves and her walls collapse. He would say he’s unsettled by this feeling but wanting to kiss Britta is kind of always there inside him, as involuntary as the beating of his heart.

“I took an Uber here. So yes, I’d like to get drunk now, if that’s alright with you.”

“It’s fine with me as long as you know none of these drinks are free.”

“Even for an old friend like me?”

“ _Especially_ for an old friend like you.”

They smile at each other as she passes him his third scotch. 

She’s called away then to get drinks for people at the other end of the bar. He watches her as he drinks, slower this time, actually relishing the bitter taste of the liquid as it coats his throat. He’s feeling freer and braver already. An air of calm washes over him as she comes back.

He stares at his empty glass and before he knows it, she’s taken it from his hand and filled it with more scotch. He takes a sip and asks, “You ever get frustrated with how your life turned out, Britta?”

She laughs. “No, Jeff. This is _exactly_ where I’d always hoped to be.” She rolls her eyes and gestures at the bar around her and he can’t help but smile.

“Fair point. But at least you’re on a path. You have a goal and you know what you want to be eventually. I used to _be_ something. I used to be awesome. Now I’m going to be a _teacher_. It’s ridiculous.” He nearly spits out the last word.

“Jeff, you’re going to help so many people that way. Think of how many manipulative, seedy, awful lawyers you can make now.” The mirth in her eyes and tone belie the harshness of her words, but she isn’t wrong.

“Hm. That’s true. I can help _other_ people be way more awesome.”

“See, there you go, Winger. Looking on the bright side. Cognitive therapy – change your thinking, change your behavior.”

It might be the four glasses of scotch he’s downed, but Jeff can’t find the error in her statement. “Britta. That’s...right.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I know,” she says, through gritted teeth. “I’m going to be a _real_ psychologist. This is just one stop on the journey. Maybe that’s what teaching will be for you. Or maybe it’s your destination. Either way, you’re going to help people Jeff. You always do. Even when you don’t want to.”

They stare into each other’s eyes, sharing the memory of the last time she’d told him something similar to that. It was when they’d played paintball at the end of their first year at Greendale. It was when they’d worked as a kickass team. It was when they’d had sex for the first time. He’s not sure how she remembers it, but it will always be one of the best nights of his life. And that’s when he decides that this convenient little trip to Britta’s bar, this ridiculous attempt at indifference, this intimate setting and lack of space between them, this is all leading to one conclusion – he wants her. And he doesn’t just want her once. And he doesn’t just want her now. He wants her over and over again for the foreseeable future. Maybe he always has.

“So. I have to pay for all these drinks, huh?”

“Duh doy.”

He leans in closer to her, as if sharing a secret. “What if I was your boyfriend? Would I have to pay for drinks then?”

She blanches, then regains her cool almost immediately and leans in to meet him. “No. But I’d collect from you in _other_ ways.”

The charge he feels now has nothing to do with the drinks he’s had and everything to do with the look in her eyes.

“If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t let you do Tummy Tuesdays anymore.”

“Oh, Jeff, haven’t we had this conversation before? Nobody tells me what to do. Ever.”

She’s so close to him now he could reach out and grab her and kiss her senseless if he wanted to – and, God, does he want to – but not yet. That would be too easy, too rash. This is Britta, not some nameless floozy in his cell phone. She’s got to want it and he’s got to work for it.

“So you would let other men have their hands and mouths all over you and then just come home to me? I’m no dude’s sloppy seconds, Britta.” He bites the words “like Troy” back just in time.

“Women can have as many sexual partners as they want without their value decreasing, Jeff,” she says icily. Then she shrugs. “Besides, it’s not always dudes.”

Now _he_ blanches. “Hm?”

“Most of the customers who take the body shots are women.”

He closes his eyes. “Ok. I’m coming around to the idea.”

“You’re a pig.”

“You like it.”

“You wish.”

The sound of a woman clearing her throat interrupts the verbal foreplay that is happening between them. Jeff looks to his left, angrily, as Natalie rings a towel between her hands. “Uh, Britta, sorry, but we need to tap the new keg and I still don’t know how.”

Britta rolls her eyes, seemingly as annoyed by the interruption as he is. “I’ll be right back,” she says, pointing in his face, “ _don’t_ leave.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks back, doing everything he can to mask the borderline giddy feeling coursing through his veins. She’s into it. This is happening. Tonight. It’s in the air between them. It’s all around them. He doesn’t know where it will lead, but he knows he can’t lose her again, not the way he did after he graduated from Greendale. Not seeing her every day felt wrong. It had been too long since she’d been a staple in his life, too long since he’d been able to study her profile from her seat next to him at the study room table, too long since he’d pretended to listen to her rants or been able to run his hands up and down her sides and tickle the sensitive skin under her breasts and behind her knees. It had been too long since he had been _engulfed_ by this woman – chewed up and swallowed and digested like he longed to be. He is always going to be about Britta. He might have recently referred to the group collectively as “the only five people I’ve ever cared about,” but it started as _one_. His feelings for Britta _taught_ him to care and it was in loving her that he’d learned to love himself _and_ everyone else. Feelings like that don’t just go away.

Britta takes a fairly long time to tap the keg and Natalie gets him another drink while he waits for her. Finally, she comes back and flashes him the brightest smile he’s ever seen. “Now, where were we?” she asks coyly, and it occurs to him Britta might be flirting with him, too. The thought sends shockwaves all through his body.

“I was about to ask you what time your shift is over.”

Her shoulders slump. “Midnight. But it’s my night to clean up, so I probably won’t get out of here ‘til, like, one.”

Jeff pretends to give this some thought, but there is no way he is leaving this bar without her. “Well, I can help you, if you want. I don’t have class until three tomorrow.”

She bites her bottom lip and her eyes light up a little. “Yeah, ok.”

Jeff falters slightly, losing his balance without trying to move at all, which is not a great sign for the performance he’d like to show her later. She reaches out to steady him and it’s the first time they’ve touched really, and he can feel the heat of her fingers long after she removes them from his shoulders. “You ok?”

“Yeah, just a little lightheaded,” he says, shaking her concern off with a wave of his hand.

“Hm. Maybe no more drinks for you. Your bill is pretty high as it is.”

“I was hoping you would collect from me in _other_ ways.” He waggles his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m hoping that, too. So no more drinks, ok?”

They both laugh and he nods in agreement. She’s called away by another customer and, as she walks away from him, she turns back and says over her shoulder, “Oh, and also, you’re paying.”

He chuckles to himself as he stares at his empty glass. Natalie asks him if he’d like another and he declines, asking for his bill instead. His total was less than he’d thought it would be, only $50, so he passes Natalie a hundred-dollar bill and tells her to make sure she and Britta split it.

“Thanks. I’m gonna put in a good word for you with—" she points at Britta but stops talking once she arrives in front of both of them.

“What are you guys talking about?” Britta asks, suspicion showing on her face.

“Nothing. I gotta go get Larry some water,” Natalie says, shooting Jeff a wink as she charges off.

Britta looks at Jeff expectantly. He shrugs, holding his empty glass between his fingers and turning it from side to side. “I was just telling Natalie that people are a lot like alcohol.”

Britta narrows her eyes at him. “Oh, really? How?”

“Well, take our friends. Troy is the all-American football player type. He’s obviously a beer. Annie is an appletini – she’s sweet and surprisingly powerful, but a little too much after a while. Shirley is a Shirley Temple because, duh. And Abed is a Long Island Iced Tea because you don’t know what the hell is in there, but you want to drink it anyway.”

She studies him closely, apparently a little impressed. “Ok. And what about me?”

“Oh, you’re the easiest one of all.”

“Offensive.”

“Relax, Tummy Tuesday. You’re scotch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re classic. And unnerving. Men never get tired of you. One taste and it’s all you can think about and you just know it won’t be long before you’re coming back for more.”

He meets her eyes, letting his words rest between them. He meant them, and he wants her to know that too.

Whether she believes him or not, she scoffs. “Good to see you haven’t lost that Winger charm.”

He places a hand over hers and she looks down at it, but doesn’t move. “Not a line, Britta. Just an observation. From my experience, anyway.”

Her mouth drops open slightly. “Damn,” she breathes, “I wish I wasn’t at work right now.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, pleased that his words have affected her.

She just nods, seemingly unable to form more words at the moment. He can count on less than one hand the amount of times _that_ has happened.

“Good,” he says, patting her hand before reluctantly pulling his away. She’d lost one job in the name of the study group already, and, although that was years ago and their friends _had_ started an actual fire, he didn’t want to risk that happening again. Especially since he was pretty sure the sparks igniting between them right now could burn this whole place to the ground.

The rest of the night passes in basically the same fashion – the two of them spending as much time together as possible, him watching her while she makes drinks and chats with customers, exchanging knowing looks and banter because that’s what they do. He’s so happy to see nothing has changed between him and Britta – they still have their thing, their connection that drives them both crazy but is rooted in genuine attraction and admiration, the thing that’s going to bond them together always. And he’s also happy that there were no other takers for Tummy Tuesday after Larry – he’s not sure if his not leaving her side since he’d arrived three hours ago had anything to do with it, but he didn’t care – let the clientele think she’s off-limits. Because, really, _isn’t she_? Finally, at 11:30 Britta announces last call to the remaining patrons and the bar slowly starts to clear out. Natalie checks that she’ll be ok before leaving for the night and, miraculously, it’s just the two of them.

“Jeez, I thought they’d never leave,” Britta jokes, flashing him a smile as he rises from the bar stool he’d occupied for the whole night. He’s relieved to see that he’s sober now, no wobble in his legs and no fog in his brain. He’s going to remember this night, and he’s going to make it good for both of them, because they deserve no less together. He walks behind the bar silently.

Her back is to him as she is tallying and totaling the money in the cash register. She turns and jumps. startled by how close he is to her. He loves when he gets the opportunity to unsettle her a little – Britta is like an immovable object, a rock, and the only person who can give it to him as good as she gets, so to trip her up is a rare gift.

“Um,” she stammers, “you’re not really allowed back here—"

“Britta?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” he says, and he takes her face in his hands and kisses her the way he’s wanted to all night. It’s deep and long and he explores every inch of her, taking in the feel of her body flush against him, the smell of her, the taste of tequila and lime and _Britta_. He can hear her groan in her throat as he runs his hands up and down her body and he instinctively presses himself even further into her, slamming her back against the counter, his body acting purely out of need for her. She responds by raking her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck and pulling on the collar of his shirt and he wishes they weren’t in this bar right now so he could rip all the clothes off both of their bodies and just bury himself in her already.

She breaks free from him for a second and he feels the loss of her immediately.

She’s breathless and flushed and so beautiful as she says, “I just...I have to...wipe down the tables.”

“Yeah, talk dirty to me,” he jokes, and she laughs.

“Ok, how’s this? After I wipe down these tables, let’s get out of here so I can have my way with you.”

“Better...” he whispers, and pulls her in for another kiss, this time sucking and biting at the delicate skin of her neck and jawline. Her breath quickens with each new spot he finds, and she whispers his name and it sounds like a prayer on her lips.

“Jeff,” she says, louder this time. “My job.” She gives him a look that is so reminiscent of the powerful, tiny woman he met five years ago that he stumbles back, memorizing every part of her in this moment.

She gets to work on the tables, the two of them tracking each other the entire time. She even comes over to him at his spot behind the bar a few times to place a quick kiss on his lips and he smiles each time. She makes quick work of cleaning the tables and putting up the chairs while he cleans the bar and replenishes garnishes. He suspects it’s not the most effective or accurate clean-up, but he can’t be bothered with that when he sees her grab her bag and leather jacket.

“I’m basically done. You wanna get the Uber?” Her eyes are hopeful, and she looks almost giddy, and he revels in the fact that she feels that way because of _him_. But there’s something that’s been on his mind for hours now and he’s not quite ready to leave just yet...

“In a minute. There’s just something I need to do first.”

Her forehead crinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Haven’t you heard?” he asks, grabbing a bottle of tequila off the shelf behind him and shaking it back and forth. “It’s Tummy Tuesday.” He sets the bottle down on the bar and looks at her expectantly.

“Jeff,” she starts, rolling her eyes.

“What? I’m a paying customer.” He takes a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and places it gently on the bar.

She sighs. “Are you serious right now?”

“Completely.”

“It’s technically Wednesday, you know.”

He doesn’t respond with words, choosing instead to raise his eyebrows at her, and the unspoken challenge has been thrown down. She’s never one to back down and he knows that better than anyone, so it’s only a matter of time before she—

“Fine.”

She tosses her bag and jacket on a nearby table and stalks behind the bar. She stands next to him, eyes locked on his while she grabs the salt and a lime wedge, placing them on a plate and handing it off to him, wordlessly.

They both wait a moment, seeing if either intends to back down. All it would take is for her to give him one signal, one indication that she doesn’t want to do this, and he’d let it go. Instead, she continues full force, and he swallows as she grips the hem of her tank top and lifts it up, inch by inch. Instead of tucking it into her bra as she did earlier, she pulls it over her head and removes it completely, letting it drop to the floor at her side. Her black bra is lacy and tattered in spots and it’s just so Britta, hard and soft at the same time, that it takes every ounce of strength he has not to touch it. Rather, he puts down the plate of accompaniments for the shot and picks her up, one arm around her waist and the other under her knees, and lays her on the bar. He traces a line from her sternum to her belly button with his index finger, and watches, transfixed, as goosebumps break out over her delicate skin. She fluffs out her hair as she did before and waits for him to make the next move. He wants to just stare at her, he wants to remember her this way for as long as he can. He has so many images of Britta in his mind, it’s like she’s in a film reel – yelling at him, kissing him, laughing with him, laughing _at_ him, rejecting him, supporting him – it’s all there, but _this_ , this is a new memory to add to his collection, one he has a feeling he’ll come back to often.

Jeff forces his body into action, shaking the salt on the skin just under her breasts. He can feel the heat radiating off her body as he moves above her, placing the lime wedge in between her parted lips. Finally, he readies the tequila, continuing to watch her responses. She gives him the slightest nod, so he pours the liquid into the concave curve of her stomach, taking in the way the liquid sits there as his tongue longs to taste it, to taste _her_.

He leans down, hovering over her stomach. The room is painfully quiet; the only sounds are the beating of his own heart and the steady rhythm of her breath. He takes one last look at her before sweeping his tongue around her belly button, swirling over the skin there, around and around in circles, before finally drinking out the liquid and swallowing it down. The tequila burns his throat, but he barely feels it, too focused on moving upward and licking the salt off of her rib cage. He meets her eyes as he moves upward again, to her mouth this time. He takes the lime from between her lips with his teeth and kisses her, running his fingers along her cheekbones and along her stomach, still slick with his saliva and the remnants of the alcohol his tongue left behind. He sucks on the lime for a second before abandoning it altogether to claim her lips once more. She sits up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and fisting his shirt. He crashes his body into hers, the rough fabric of her bra in such contrast to the rest of her soft skin. They kiss like teenagers for what feels like hours, panting and groaning and teasing and biting, like they just can’t get enough of each other and probably never will.

When he pauses to catch his breath, he looks into her eyes. “So, Tummy Tuesdays, huh?”

“I’m guessing you’re a fan,” she responds, and laughs.

“I can see the appeal.”

“Thanks. Except now I have to wipe down the bar _again_.”

“Worth it.”

“You’re so gross.”

“Well, you like me. What does that say about _you_?”

“Hm. That I have epically bad taste in men?”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Oh, just kiss me again, _Mr. Winger_ , before I come to my senses about all this.” 

Spurred on by her playful tone, Jeff obliges, touching every part of her body he can. He starts to unbutton her jeans, but she stops him by placing a tiny hand over his. They lock eyes again and she says, “Jeff, this isn’t the study room table. I _know_ how gross this bar is. I'm the one who cleans it. Let’s go home.”

He smiles, noting that she didn’t specify which home, hers or his, but realizing it doesn’t actually matter. Because they could be _anywhere_ – Greendale, this bar, his bedroom – and it wouldn’t matter. As long as the two of them are together, they’ll always be _home_. And as long as that home, wherever it may be, is stocked with salt, limes, and tequila, what more could he need?


End file.
